Trick
by Altariel
Summary: How (not) to play cards. Boromir, Denethor, Faramir.


**Trick**

_Minas Tirith, in the Third Age_

What made it particularly galling was that Boromir was the one who had taught his brother the game in the first place. He'd learned from his uncle, Imrahil, one holiday on the coast, after Mama died. They were there for _mettar__ë_ and everyone made a fuss of them. Imrahil had taken him under his wing; they'd gone riding, practiced swords, learned cards. Boromir remembered enjoying the holiday. He wasn't so sure about his father and his brother.

He had stored away the knowledge of cards for when they were back at home, for one of those long, dark, wet, and dull evenings, stuck in a big old house at the very top of an old stone city. The two of them – twelve and seven; one bored, the other obedient – left to their own devices. The older prowled around while the other sat quietly and read.

"Come on," said the older, at last, "I'll teach you how to play cards."

The younger, who had been completely content, sighed to himself and put down his book.

"Four suits," said Boromir, laying the cards out on the table. "Coins, swords, cups, trees. Then the numbered cards – one to seven. The eagles count as one."

"What are these – the ones with pictures?"

"Knight, queen, king. Eight, nine, ten. Are you following this?"

Faramir, taking the queen of cups, examined her closely. "She has a nice face. But she looks sad."

"They're not for storytelling!"

"Still, I wonder what's making her so sad…"

"I don't know!"

"Perhaps she misses the sea."

"Are you going to learn to play or not?"

Faramir surrendered the card.

"All right. This game is called three sevens. First I deal out ten cards each…"

Faramir watched as he did this. "Will Papa like this?"

His brother looked up. "What?"

"Will he like this? It seems… what's the word he uses? Frivolous."

"He won't mind."

"Shouldn't we be reading, or studying, or—"

Boromir thumped the stack down in the centre of the table. "I said he won't mind. Soldiers play cards. All right, first to twenty-one."

"You're very sure he won't mind?"

"He never minds if it's my idea."

* * *

The years passed, and Boromir went off to war, and he did indeed play a lot of cards. Sometimes he made money; sometimes he lost. Never beyond his means, mind; Father had his limits, even with him. He didn't miss home particularly, although he did miss his brother – who made him laugh – and he worried about him, stuck at there. Father was not exactly the most cheerful company, and Faramir was too solemn already.

He was startled, coming home after that first tour, to see how well they got along. Flipped quotations back and forth between each other. Finished the other one's sentences. Seemed to be always partway through a conversation that Boromir wasn't entirely following. Perhaps he shouldn't be so surprised. Sometimes, they would both look at him at the same time in exactly the same way… Unsettling, to say the least. No one should have to face that.

At dinner, that first night back, he talked for ages. Couldn't stop himself. Everything he'd done; everything he'd seen. Spun a few tall tales; himself as the hero. A little embellishment? Surely nobody would mind. Everyone loved a good story. Father smiling throughout, and that wasn't easily achieved. Faramir quiet and attentive, as usual, but the bright light of love in his eyes. Boromir loved being loved.

"Do you want a game of cards?" his father said, after dinner. Faramir already had the deck out. Boromir had the distinct impression this was something they did every night. If you'd pressed him, he would have said they amused themselves with chess. Perhaps they'd wanted a change.

Three sevens. Father shuffled and dealt. Boromir then preceded to lose to him at alarming rate. Faramir, more cautious, was fine. Then he saw it. Saw what his father was doing. He caught a glimpse of the top card – the seven of trees – and thought, _That'll come in useful… _But it never turned up. His father… well, what had he done, exactly? Dealt the second card down, he guessed. Well. He'd known he was tricky, but…

He kept his counsel that night. Played the game. Lost a lot to Father. Paying up, he thought, _So that's how it is, is it?_

* * *

After that, he spent a couple of hours each day in front of the mirror with the pack. Practised again and again. Learning the trick his father performed. A night or two before he was heading off again, he felt confident enough to try.

His turn to deal and the top card was the four of swords. He gave his father the next card—

"Boromir," said his father. "The second card down? I hardly think so."

"What?"

"Deal again."

"What?"

"If you're going to cheat, try to be less blatant about it."

"Cheat?" He went scarlet. Could he brazen this one out? "You think _I'm_ cheating? When you…"

He stopped himself – he couldn't quite level the accusation, in front of his brother.

Father, sighing, turned to look at Faramir, who had, by some strange skill or other, contrived to fade almost entirely into the background. "You know how we do it, properly, don't you?"

Faramir, biting his lip, was clearly considering what kind of response was least likely to incriminate. Eventually, he nodded.

"Go on then," ordered their father. "If you do know how, show him."

Boromir watched as his younger brother shuffled the deck, then slowly dealt the cards. "You were skimming off the top," he said. "Look. You played the second card down. Anyone can do that. Or from near the bottom too." He gave a demonstration. "The trick is to deal from the middle. But it's not as easy."

"Hold on," said Boromir, in dismay. "Have you been at it too?"

"What?" Faramir glanced at their father and flushed. "No!"

"But you can do it?"

"Well, yes." He began to shuffle the cards again, his hands becoming quicker and quicker. He showed Boromir the first ten cards, and the bottom ten cards, but when he dealt the first card it was none of these. Boromir could not for the life of him see what had been done.

"I wouldn't cheat, sir," said Faramir, to his father.

"I know."

"You'd see, for one thing."

"Yes, I would."

"So it would be… well, foolish to try."

"Yes," said their father. "It would be foolish to try."

Boromir, watching them, again had that odd sensation of entering a conversation partway through, where everyone but him knew the subject, and he had forgotten to study. "This," said the heir, thoughtfully, looking at the deck, "was not playing to my strengths, was it?"

His father and his brother shot each other a look. Same grey eyes; same shrewd wit. Same smile.

"No."

"Pay up."

* * *

_Altariel, 12__th__ January 2020_


End file.
